(no subject)
Cerin nearly flinched away from Merrin's touch, tolerating the coldness that was the blonde's lips before turning away, uncomfortable. Awkward. Wrong. All the things that together, they should not have been, nor had ever been before. Quiet grace, understanding, beauty, yes, all of it. But, for the entirety of their misdeeds, not wrong. No, Cerin could be wrong, and Merrin could be wrong, but nameless emotion between them could never be. Yet, a sudden guilt had over-come the weapons master, washing over him like an unwelcome storm.
Because it was different this time.
Because it was not just two-- dare he call them something so sacred, so profane--lovers, it was the two and [I]another[/I], someone who could break what they had when they were not even sure they wanted it, but protected it anyways. Merrin would have called what he felt for Ilvarion 'envy' or 'jealousy,' freely, openly. He was a young man of blunt truth, nothing else when it came to his mind. Yes, he envied Ilvarion somewhat, for the innocence, more than anything else, and the recognition he saw in Cerin's gray fire eyes. Recognition-- I know you. Not, What are you to me? or What do I feel for you?
Perhaps that was why he tortured the youth so now. Merrin felt possessive, defensive. Everything in the world he ever could have wanted was his-- power, wealth, influence, knowledge, strength... But, he needed this, this strange and wonderful and horrible relationship, this connection with something warm, breathing, touching, wanting... And though his pride would never let him admit it aloud, the blonde assassin would never let someone take it from him, take Cerin from him.
He did not want to feel empty again.
He wanted to feel this, Cerin's warm, tanned skin beneath his delicate, cool hands, the same flesh beneath his lips. Even this pang that pride would never let him call 'hurt' or 'pain' as Cerin turned away, embarassed, ashamed, guilty. No, Merrin could never admit, not even to himself, that another, a person, could affect him that way. So, he just laughed, a quiet, dark sound of amusement that echoed faintly in the corridor as he withdrew from the raven-haired slayer, directing piercing storm-cloud eyes at Ilvarion with a typically malicious air.
"Ilvarion, " Merrin spoke, and his voice was cold, oh so cold now that this youth was no longer the 'sweet child' but 'the spectator,' and now that he felt not fondness for him but threatened by him, the small, quiet boy, and he, the headmaster, the assassin, the power-holder, the one who smiled icily just like this. "Is something the matter?"
And Cerin's gaze accused him: You're mocking him, taunting him. Hurting him.And Merrin's smile said: I know.
For the full roleplay, check out: Hidden Ache.